


Control

by nightshiftblues



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bondage, Chastity Device, Consent Issues, Dubious Ethics, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Medical, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Work, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshiftblues/pseuds/nightshiftblues
Summary: You don’t know how the clients choose, exactly. But you’ve thought about it, speculated with the other girls. You’ve imagined a sleekly designed catalogue somewhere in the murky depths of the deep web, where you and the other residents are listed. A neat headshot (no makeup but flattering lighting), fist name, height, weight, eye color, age, maybe the languages you speak. Then a few drop-down menus where the clients pick the position they’ll expect to find you in, the material of the restraints, the apparatus they’ll need and, of course, the amount of time you’ll spend in the belt before the appointment.That seems to be the main thing they pay for. The control.
Relationships: James Madison/Reader, Thomas Jefferson/James Madison/Reader, Thomas Jefferson/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 116





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Please STRONGLY heed the consent warning in the tags, a lack of control is a major part of this. I've never written anything remotely like this so if you're here from my other works it still might not be for you.

In a way, The Pleasure Centre is quite accommodating as far as working conditions go. There are no lights on the ceiling, which would have been quite irritating on the eyes considering you can’t move your head. There’s a soft leather strap under your chin, connected somewhere behind the back of your head. Being able to see without actually seeing anything but the tasteful wooden paneling of the ceiling is, in a way, worse than being blindfolded would have been.

Still, all things considered, it’s not too bad. The surface you’ve been suspended on is bespoke made for the body of a person around your height, and lightly cushioned with a soft velvet-like fabric. The leather straps that keep your arms above your head and your knees obscenely open and back, parallel to your torso, are relentlessly firm but not chafing. The severity of the marks they’ll leave on your skin will depend on how much you’ll struggle. The gag in your mouth is bespoke too, molded just for you, so you have a non-achy albeit spit-covered jaw to look forward to.

You don’t know how the clients choose, exactly. But you’ve thought about it, speculated with the other girls. You’ve imagined a sleekly designed catalogue somewhere in the murky depths of the deep web, where you and the other residents are listed. A neat headshot (no makeup but flattering lighting), fist name, height, weight, eye color, age, maybe the languages you speak. Then a few drop-down menus where the clients pick the position they’ll expect to find you in, the material of the restraints, the apparatus they’ll need and, of course, the amount of time you’ll spend in the belt before the appointment.

That seems to be the main thing they pay for. The control.

You’ve seen the less lucky girls that still get envied because they’re the most _expensive_ ones. The ones who have spent a year in the sleek, unbreachable chastity belt, pumped full of hormones until they finally snap and violently and tearfully grind on a pillow until the night guard catches them. Some of them disappear for the night, some for good. You’re all free to leave at any time, right? Just without the money.

You got lucky. Just one month in the silicone belt that only gets taken off for closely supervised bathroom breaks and cleanup, and two nondescript white capsules taken with dinner that have you squeezing your thighs together by the time they turn off the lights, and dreaming of things that leave your pulse racing and skin sticky. You’ve kept your head down and been exceptionally good. This Madison-guy is getting his money’s worth.

When someone gets picked, they don’t tell you how long you’ll spend in denial before the appointment comes, but they do program the name of the buyer to flash by in the rotation of numbers and codes on the little black electronic screen of your chastity belt. So, Madison.

The worst part is that it’s probably the guy’s actual name. The clientele of the center are untouchable while the merchandise consist of people willing to trade their bodily autonomy away for good cash. You’ve done the math.

You curl and uncurl your toes to encourage circulation in your slowly numbing feet. It must have been some twenty minutes since the staff took you aside, cleaned and shaved you while you stared at the ceiling awkwardly, trying not to squirm despite of the needy oversensitivity you’ve developed, and took you to the fabled top floor of the building with your chastity belt securely re-attached. Footsteps ebb in and out of your earshot, even a few lingering ones but they all pass by. You caught a glimpse of a large, almost fall-length window next to the door when they brought you in. All the passing clients and staff can see you clearly. Fine, you suppose. It’s not your face they’re seeing, anyway, from this angle.

A set of purposeful but leisurely footsteps come to a halt right at the door and your put-on nonchalance slides off like slippery veil of silk. There’s a beep as the visitor scans his thumb print, and the mechanical buzz of the lock.

You try to calm your breathing as the door slides open and shut, and the footsteps trace the length of the room. A thud of fabric on fabric, probably a coat being taken off, then a beep and a prolonged mechanical buzz. The curtains closing and covering the window to the hallway, you deduce, based on the slow change in lighting.

This one’s not an exhibitionist, then.

“Good evening,” says a smooth, polite voice.

Your heart pounds in your ears. Your strategy is to stay still and quiet unless told otherwise.

Approaching steps and a warm hand on your thigh. Just resting there like it might on the hood of a car that someone’s entertaining the thought of buying. The man, (Madison, you presume) stays out of your line of sight so you let your eyes fall closed.

“I hope you’re comfortable,” he says pleasantly, and you honestly almost laugh. Is he pointing out the fact that you couldn’t tell him if you were, or just filling the silence with chatter? Surely there’s a stereo setup in here in case he finds the silence uncomfortable.

The hand slides down your thigh, towards your crotch, considering.

“Guess there’s no point in waiting,” Madison mutters, this time clearly to himself.

There’s a beep and you realize he has scanned his thumb print on the screen of the belt as the light-yet-unforgiving material around your pelvis loosens up. Your legs tense up as a habitual response to a taste of freedom and the embarrassment of being exposed and you hear a good-natured chuckle.

“Let’s not get too excited right off the bat, now.”

_Douche._

The belt falls onto the carpet with a sort, careless thud and the man whose face you haven’t even seen yet and never might takes his sweet time _looking,_ three fingertips lightly resting on the inner tendon of your thigh. If there’s a pulse point somewhere around there the man can surely tell how frantically your heart is hammering in your ears.

Two fingers brush over your sex and sink in, with no warning, and you bite back a gasp. Lest he thinks you’re _getting too excited right off the bat,_ never mind that you’ve been kept in a heightened state of unsated arousal for the past 32 days. Just enough to still remember how good it feels to be touched, to yearn.

The fingers withdraw as quickly as they appeared, and Madison hums in a pleased manner. “Fantastic.”

Your skin heats up; like you need to be told how wet you are.

“Now where is the… ah.”

Whatever he was looking for must have been at an arm’s reach. There’s a sound of paper tearing, like a sugar packet being opened at a diner, and something small is slapped onto your thigh. A sticker? A stamp?

A “neuroplaster”, you recall reading on one of the brochures you were handed during the briefing. The science babble had pretty much flown over your head, but as far as you could tell, they emit some hormone-like stuff into your body, achieving highly specific effects. Kind of like nicotine patches.

Whatever the function of the one that Madison just administered to you, it’s none of your concern. That’s part of the reason why this night alone will pay for a full year of college, textbooks and rent included. Well, that and the absence of a safe word.

You expect a tingle, or a heatwave, any kind of a sensation really to wash over you, but your body doesn’t feel different at all. Maybe the neuroplasters are just a gimmick, or slower to work than advertised. You don’t have time to dwell on it – Madison is picking up something else, something clunkier and heavier this time.

The low buzz makes you flinch before you can stop yourself, your deprived body’s conditioned response to the promise of finally feeling satisfaction overriding whatever pride was still lingering. You can’t believe it. Why would the guy pay for such a high-end service if he just wants to make you both come in a way that doesn’t involve a torture session of some kind?

“Try and stay as still as you can.”

The vibrator is on the lowest setting and only the tip is slowly circling your clit, but it’s enough to make you pant around your gag as the sparks of pleasure - _finally! -_ stiffen your spine. It takes all your will power not to struggle against your restraints in an effort to grind against the vibrating tip, but you can’t imagine keeping it up much longer. It feels so good to be touched you’re tearing up slightly.

Madison’s left palm is still resting on your thigh, his thumb stroking the tender skin in an almost calming-like manner. You soon realize he probably told you to stay still so that he could best gauge the exact sweet spot on your already pulsating clitoris, carefully observing the way your muscles clench as he slowly moves the vibrator, applying the lightest of pressure. You realize you’re whimpering now.

“Does that feel good?” he hums. You let out a muffled moan as the vibration level gets upped ever so slightly. “We have a long night ahead of us, I want to make sure I’m reading you right.”

Something about his tone… Something like malice hiding in the undercurrent beneath the kind, conversational tone of his voice.

You don’t get to dissect it - your mental faculties are promptly taken over by the sensation of something blunt pressing against your opening, slowly pushing your lips apart and withdrawing again. Even the teasing touch tells you that he’s big. Not something you honestly expected from a man visiting a glorified brothel. It must be the denial that’s causing your mouth to water. The prospect of being properly filled after being so empty for so long.

Madison, thankfully, seems impatient too. As you suspected, he finds the most sensitive spot for the vibrator to rest on, and pushes inside you with a few, purposeful thrusts. His cock stretches you out and pushes on your inner walls, sure, but it still slides in with minimal resistance just because of how ridiculously wet you are. The muffled moan that leaves your mouth is absolutely obscene but you don’t care anymore, the brutal onslaught of unrelenting pleasure on your clitoris combined with the bull bursts of satisfaction from the man’s drawn-out thrusts is more than enough to push you to the brink, to make you, to make you-

Your eyes snap open from the shock of it, as you teeter to the edge of an orgasm and just… stay there, like balancing on a knives edge, the pleasurable sensation turning into pain as the sharp edge of denial digs into your flesh. How? How aren’t you coming?

_The neuroplaster,_ you realize with a sinking feeling. It’s blocking the signal your body is trying to send to your brain about orgasming. As it to confirm your theory, like he’s read your mind, Madison ups the level of the vibrator again, jerking you back to the edge of an orgasm with a simple flick of his thumb, and leaving you dangling there, writhing and gasping for air.

“Go on then,” he says, slightly breathless and this time openly taunting. “Go ahead, come. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all this time?”

And you try, even though rationally you know you can’t defeat your own altered body chemistry with the pure force of will. You try because the rhythm of Madison’s thrusts is speeding up, his cock sliding out of you and slamming back in so satisfyingly you want to scream because it’s _not fair._ You struggle and writhe your hips, like pushing harder against the vibrator and meeting his hips will also push you over that magical threshold, but of course it doesn’t, it just brings you to the edge faster and leaves you there, twisting and thrashing with need, again and again. Five edges in you realize your hairline is turning damp with tears.

You were wrong about the torture thing, you were _so wrong_ about the torture thing.

It’s not like he lets you rest or acclimate to the onslaught of pleasure, either, always upping the intensity of the vibrator when you try to go limp until you’re panting and writhing against that relentless tip again.

“Hey.” He snaps his fingers above your face. “Hey now, we’re just getting started. How about this: I’ll take it off after twenty edges. Alright? Just hang on for twenty edges.”

_Fucking really?_ You can’t take twenty edges. You can’t even take two. Not that anyone’s asked.

Whenever Madison’s grip hardens on your thigh, like he’s starting to really get into it, he slows down, pulls out almost completely. Your suffering must be part of the satisfaction for him. His palm travels up your stomach, you suppress a squeal as he pinches your nipple and rolls it between his slightly calloused fingers.

“Does that feel good?” he says, only slightly breathless.

You shake your head the miniscule amount that you can. He laughs.

“It could, you know. With just a few months or training via the basic principles of classical conditioning you could like whatever I want you to like, get off only by hearing my voice, or having a cock shoved up your ass. The human body is a wonderfully teachable thing.”

Just then, the tidal wave of a building orgasm sweeps you up again, your whole body strung out and shaking. Your mind loses the capacity to string thoughts together beyond the need to make it past that threshold. Madison says some other things, but does it really matter what? Your body aches from the strain of trying to get away from and closer to the source of the pulsating pleasure that feels more and more like agony with every second your body is forced to build up to a relief that never comes.

You realize neither of you is counting. You realize you’re full on sobbing at this point.

You realize there’s a knocking sound that’s separate from the pounding in your head. Madison, too, stills after a moment.

“Late as usual.”

He pulls out and turns off the vibrator. You gasp for air, filled with a truly confusing mixture of relief and frustration. Your body remains tense as you quiver and pant.

The door is opened.

“Thomas.”

“Jemmy!”

A foreign male voice. You’re too exhausted to panic.

“Come in, glad you finally chose to join us.”

“It’s not that easy to find this place, it isn’t exactly on Google Maps- hey, you started already? Without me?” The southern lilt in this guy’s voice is the only characteristic that registers in your mind. Are they really allowed to bring just anyone in? This, apparently, was none of your concern either.

“Don’t worry, you can have your turn soon,” Madison grunts. “This is a good one, too bad she’s most likely single use.”

Your skin heats up in indignation, but the concern of degrading language flees your mind when a familiar, entitled hand strokes your thigh and sends ripples of dread up your spine. What was it again he’d said about classical conditioning?

“Do you mind if I come inside?”

“Knock yourself out,” replies a lazy voice from the side of the room. A clink of fine glass on glass, followed by the sound of flowing liquid. You catch the faintest whiff of scotch. “But I want her conscious so don’t push it too far.”

“Sure,” Madison replies with a voice tinged with boredom and slides inside you with careless ease.

This time, instead of using the vibrator, he massages your clit with his thumb almost absent-mindedly, in rhythm with his thrusts. You’re so oversensitive that even that is enough to make you whimper. Before the edges would punch you in the gut out of nowhere, but this time it builds up like tide you could see rising yet couldn’t do a thing to escape, which was almost worse.

_Please,_ you try to vocalize through your gag, but only a desperate, gargled up cry comes out.

A laugh from the side of the room. “Poor thing.”

Madison huffs too, snaps his hips forward until he bottoms out and presses down with his thumb. Feeling him come inside of you while you’re being deprived the same pleasure makes your desperation turn into anger and you thrash helplessly against the restraints, too far gone to care about the pointlessness of the effort.

Madison groans once, low, and takes his time rocking his hips back and forth until he’s fully spent, still rubbing your clit, rubbing in the indignity, in small, immaculate, drawn-out circles.

Then he pulls out. “All yours.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Your breathing comes out in sporadic bursts and just then you realize how sweat-drenched you are. Not to mention the warm cum dripping down, oozing out… You shake the thought. You’ve come too far to feel shame now, you’re just giving them what they want.

Leisurely footsteps approach and pause right in front of you. The other guy – Thomas? – clicks his tongue. “You’re so cruel, James,” he says.

He peels the neuroplaster off your thigh – there’s a mild sting. You still don’t feel any different, but this time you know better.

“Good thing some of us like to reward those who are good for us, yeah?”

He, of course, tears open another packet and sticks the second neuroplaster just below your bellybutton.

_Maybe it’s the same one,_ your reeling, paranoid mind pipes up. Maybe they’re just fucking with you. If this guy is anything like Madison, it’s not unlikely.

“Just lay back, darlin’,” he hums, his warm palms tracing the length of your torso. “You’re in good hands.”

The sound of unraveling duct tape catches you off guard. Something heavy is laid across your stomach and fastened in place with a few swift and adept movements. If your head was in a clearer place you would have immediately known the weight of a Hitachi wand resting right on top of your clit, even before it gets turned on. Probably. Your entire body winces in shock when the vibrator stirs into life.

_Fuck._ It’s a relatively low setting, and the curve of the tip only lightly rests on the top of the hood of your clitoris, but Madison has you worked up to a level of desperation where even the relatively mild stimulus has you writhing within moments. You forget about the guy completely as your breathing turns frantic and all your muscles tense up. You want to move your hips in the hopes of meeting the wand but you’re too scared of accidentally moving it to risk it, not to mention the chill of fear at the thought that you’ll just get denied again as soon as you reach the edge.

“There you go, good girl,” someone murmurs and then it hits you, hard and fast, and for the first time your restraints do sting against your skin as the orgasm forces your spine into an arch and makes your legs shake.

Two casual fingers slide into you as soon as it’s done.

“See I don’t know how you do what you do, James,” a voice filters through the haze of your pleasure. “I mean I get the appeal, I do, but nothing really beats the feel of a satisfied pussy.”

The way he slides all the way in, all at once, snaps you right out of your haze. You’re still open and soaking wet from Madison’s treatment so despite of his considerable size, Thomas penetrates you with little resistance. The issue is the oversensitivity that follows orgasming, which you now realize is also rapidly increasing under the persistent buzz of the vibrator.

The man lets out a satisfied grunt. “This one contacts.”

There’s a soft click and you wince in shock as the vibration level is upped. The discomfort-tinged pleasure gets stronger and stronger and you’re not ready to-

“Hey, you should come again.”

The onslaught of pleasure is so much sharper this time, it hits you like a physical thing and you cry out in pleasure and desperation. _No more._

“You’ve been such a good girl,” Thomas coos. He’s fucking you in earnest now, gripping handfuls of your thighs as if to keep you spread out, as if the restraints aren’t enough. “As a reward, I’m gonna make you come ten times more, at least.”

_Oh god._ You know you won’t be able to take it, the edge of oversensitivity is already turning into pain that mixes up with the pleasure in a mind-scrambling way. On a basic biological level you should be going numb down there, some part of you realizes, but it’s not happening.

Another click and your legs start to shake along with the vibrator resting on your clit. It _hurts,_ it hurts like something you’ve never experienced because by yourself the post-orgasmic oversensitivity would make you drop the vibrator even if you wanted to push it. The muscles of your legs strain under the instinctive attempt to close them, to stop this onslaught of overstimulated pain.

You come again. And again, barely a breath in between. Thomas groans quietly and presses in until his hips are flush against yours and just grinds his hips, as deep in as he possibly can be. You realize you’re half-moaning, half-sobbing, as your helpless body keeps waiting for the post-orgasmic wind down and release that never comes. This must be part of the appeal, some part of you reckons. Not just the physical sensation of you orgasming around his cock again and again, but the helpless desperation.

Maybe this is how they operate, as a team, with the ‘long-term’ girls. This guy makes them hate the idea of coming, and then the other one makes them desperate for it again, and they get passed back and forth between these states of desperation. Like a game of tennis.

Thomas grips your tear and drool-soaked jaw. “Hey now, stay with me. I know you’ve got more in you, c’mon.”

He coos it like he’s persuading you to his viewpoint. You know what’s coming even before the vibration level gets upped again. The overstimulation is so bad now it’s synonymous with the pleasure, like the two have never not coexisted in your shaking body. The buildup and the edge and the orgasm seem to all happen within seconds of each other, seconds of tortured anticipation, and you thrash and fight against the restraints in earnest now to no avail as it crashes into you again. _Please, please._

“This one’s lasted longer than I expected,” says Madison, reminding you of his presence in the room.

“Remind me to leave a good tip,” Thomas says. The raspy breathlessness in his voice gives you hope that the torture might be over soon, though it would not be above him to leave you there, the vibrator on, until you pass out. You whimper.

“No no, this is my treat,” Madison insists.

It hurts. It hurts. You’re coming again. Palms squeezing down on your waist, thumbs massaging your hip bones in a sick imitation of intimacy. Your body aches from the futile effort of trying to twist free from the focal point of pain and pleasure between your legs, yet you can’t go limp.

Thomas bends over you until you feel his warm breath on your jugular. The vibrator is pressed between your bodies and the added pressure makes your vision white out for a second.

“Good girl,” he purrs into your neck and a strangled scream is torn out of your throat. “Just a couple more.”

~~O~~

The cheque doesn’t come in the mail like you expect; you find it in an envelope enclosed with a massive bouquet of a dozen or so roses that a courier hands to you a day later. Or is to two days? You’ve mostly been sleeping, and showering, and sleeping. You blink in mute disbelief at the extra zero on the dotted line of the cheque for a good few minutes until your room mate bangs the door on her way to the kitchen, making you snap out of it.

“Damn,” she says with a low whistle when she sees the bouquet lying on the counter. “Good date?”

You tuck the cheque into your bra before she catches sight of it.

“A job offer, actually.”


End file.
